


Suit Yourself

by larascasse



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Smut, Suit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-04 05:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larascasse/pseuds/larascasse
Summary: Suits make Kimi uncomfortable, which can be a problem when you're at a gala.





	Suit Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Based on canon FIA Gala but attendance and seating arrangement made to fit my needs. My fic, my rules. :P  
> Inspired by a prompt on motorskink.

Kimi doesn’t like formal events. Everyone knows this, so his presence at the FIA gala surprises more than a few people, making them wonder how he got bribed into going. It’s obvious the whole suit thing makes him uncomfortable, though no one knows just how uncomfortable. By the time Kimi reaches his table, seated next to Seb, he’s already got that nauseating feeling in his stomach and the glass of wine he’s being served is swallowed with haste.  
  
Kimi is thinking he might actually make it through the night, having arrived late definitely helped, when he spots Mark chatting up Fernando and his throat goes dry, his hand automatically reaching for his glass, but finding it already empty. The suit is cut perfectly around Mark’s form, with sharp shoulders, and a bowtie that’s just the right size, unlike Fernando’s oversized one. Kimi forces his gaze to the other side of the room, gnawing on his fingernails to keep both his mouth and his hands busy, focusing on dresses, shoes, or anything else that can distract him.  
  
“Nervous about the award?” Seb asks, elbowing him teasingly in his side.  
  
Kimi snaps out of his trance, placing his hands flat on his lap. It would probably be safer if he sat on them, but it would also look ridiculous which, on second thought, doesn’t seem like such a bad option as he feels his blood pulsing through him. He gives a quick shake of his head in response to Seb then gestures at the nearby waiter for another glass of wine.  
  
When the awards are given out, the lights above the audience are dimmed and Kimi has the misfortune of having Mark directly in his view. He fists his hands and tries to pay attention to the comments Seb whispers in his ear, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Mark, from how tightly the white collar hugs Mark’s neck, showcasing his Adam’s apple as he takes a drink. Kimi feels short of breath, so he takes off his bowtie and undoes a couple of buttons, which should help, but it doesn’t. He still feels trapped, wishes he was wearing something else, wishes Mark was wearing something else, anything else.  
  
“Are you okay?” Seb asks, and it could be the deep breaths he’s taking or the fact that his face must be Ferrari red, but Kimi can’t hide his discomfort.  
  
“Fucking suit,” he says, hissed between closed teeth.  
  
“Oh,” Seb says, his voice hushed and sympathetic. “It’s the suit thing again?”  
  
Kimi nods. His suit _issue_ , for lack of a better word, had somehow come up over drinks one night. Seb had laughed and then proceeded to try on every suit he’d owned to get a reaction. He catches Seb stealing a glance under the table and tries to suppress a fresh wave of embarrassment. His cock is stiff, trapped between his thigh and the unyielding material of his own suit pants. His erection would be visible to anyone looking.  
  
Seb’s eyes linger on Kimi’s lower half before they follow his gaze and land on Mark. Seb bites down on his lip, his brow creasing momentarily before he speaks again. “I can help, if you want.”  
  
There’s a sadness in Seb’s voice that he doesn’t try to hide, and Kimi has no illusions as to what Seb wants from him, so he doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to venture into ambiguous territory again. They’ve been there before and barely made it out, but fuck he needs to get off, and it feels so right when Seb leans forward, an arm draping around the back of his chair, leaning in close as though he was telling Kimi some kind of secret as his other hand traces a path up his thigh. Kimi’s knuckles are white from the tension, and he clears his throat when he feels the intrusive hand rubbing his dick through his trousers, but his mind is too clouded with images of Mark to care that Sebastian has pulled the tablecloth to cover below his waist and is now undoing his belt and pants.  
  
He feels fingers slip into his underwear and pull out his cock, the brush of a starched cuff against his skin, and in the back of his mind, he knows it can’t be, but when he looks at Mark, at the way the white shirt pokes out of the jacket sleeves, the way the material hugs Mark’s wrists, he imagines it’s Mark’s fingers touching him, wrapped loosely around his cock, the grip firmer when they reach the head, careful not to cause unwanted friction without proper lubrication but applying pressure in all the right places.  
  
His head is spinning, his breathing shallow, and there’s clapping all around him, but he doesn’t know for whom, doesn’t care. He only cares about the way Mark looks when he claps, arms bent, the black fabric framing his narrow shape, hands slightly rounded as they clap, rounded like the ones cupping Kimi’s balls, massaging them briefly before they return to his shaft. Kimi’s fists are clenched so tightly that his joints start to hurt, and the dull pain is the only thing preventing him from moaning and screaming, because fuck, he’s about to come. Thank god he has the presence of mind to grab the napkin from the table and place it around him, because Mark suddenly turns to look his way, maybe finally feeling the burn of Kimi’s stare on him, and Kimi knows he must look a mess, brow damp and cheeks flushed, lips wet and red from being pressed together, but Mark doesn’t seem to notice, simply offering him a nod and a smile, and a glance he doesn’t quite understand, before facing the stage again. But a quick look from Mark is all it takes to send Kimi over the edge, and he clenches his teeth together, so hard his jaw will hurt after, stopping the moans in his throat, drowned by another round of applause.  
  
It takes him a minute to realise that the applause was for Seb, who is now on his way to the stage to accept an award, wearing a smug grin on his face, joking around as he always does. It’s unfair really, how these things work; everyone looking at Seb while Seb looks at Kimi, who’s looking at Mark, who’s looking down at the table. Not that Kimi cares when he’s putting his dick back in his pants under a table in the middle of a filled room, a come-soiled napkin _accidentally_ dropped on the floor. All he cares about is getting out of here before his urges surface again.  
  
“Say bye to Seb for me. I’m going,” he whispers over to Christian, who is sitting next to him and, thankfully, has been having an in-depth technical conversation with Adrian up until now.  
  
Christian nods distractedly and gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Suit yourself.”


End file.
